


wake me up. l.s.

by silentsaunter



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: 2020 larry, 50 First Dates AU, Alcoholism, Alternate Universe, Amnesia, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anterograde Amnesia, Canon Compliant, Established Relationship, Fluff, Gardener Harry, Happy Ending, Harry smokes, Hiatus, I didn't mean for it to be, M/M, Major Character Injury, No Smut, Painter Louis, Past Abuse, Writer Harry, and he's a gardener too, anyway nobody cares, bluegreen, enjoy, harry gives a lot of artsy speeches, i dont know why i just wrote him that way, i hate smut, i've never seen that movie, it's actually based on a documentary about this old man, kinda angsty in the beginning i guess, larry - Freeform, larry is real, larry stylinson - Freeform, mentions of physical abuse, no smut!, resulting in, whatever just read the fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-29
Updated: 2020-03-29
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:35:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23377753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silentsaunter/pseuds/silentsaunter
Summary: anterograde amnesia is a loss of the ability to create new memories after the event that caused amnesia, leading to a partial or complete inability to recall the recent past, while long-term memories from before the event remain intact.
Relationships: Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson
Comments: 2
Kudos: 22





	wake me up. l.s.

The rays of glared sun that shot for Louis’ eyelids awakened him. The morning was as assured as the tides, and just as unstoppable. He needed a few more hours of blackness - not to sleep, but to prepare. To pour out his thoughts, reorganize and prioritize them, and pack them back in again. But already, through hooded eyes, he could see the chaos in the room; the dark ragged outline of the furniture and the dirty clothes from the night before on the floor. 

The morning wasn’t London grey, but by soothing lavender and brilliant amber, the colours merging into millennial pink and peach. The curtains added an orange glow to the morning light, making a perfect sunrise in the room. It reminded Louis of the time he and the lads had slept in a beach hut in Miami, watching the ocean emerge under the golden shimmer. For a moment, his mind conjured the sound of rhythmic waves, soft on the sandy shore, and felt his heart beat to the same slow pace. He breathed in deeply. A new day had begun. The space beside him was empty, the duvet completely wrapped around him burrito-style, but Louis could still feel the comfortable heart radiating from where Harry was once laid. Probably woke up early to watch the beautiful sunrise from the roof, Louis contemplated.

The bed was warm, the draughts were cold, yet Louis’ feet swung outward into the chill. He rose unsteadily from the bed, his vision still blurred from the sleep and something about his weight and the way he was carrying himself feeling unfamiliar. He brushed it off in favour of a wonderful morning.

Harry always made blueberry pancakes for breakfast in their non-stick pan that had lost its non-stick. Even if Louis only pretended to like them, he was still looking forward to their morning routine, soft kisses and the sound of bare feet on tile floor. He’d still get McDonald’s breakfast on his way to the studio and Harry would still be nice enough to pretend he didn’t find the packaging in their car later that day.

But, as Louis rubbed his eyes and blinked them clear, he noticed that his clothes didn’t feel like they fit correctly, and they weren’t the ones he remembered putting on before bed. In fact, he had no recollection of even buying these clothes. Around his waist were shapeless cotton shorts and a loose-fitting black sweater was draped over his shoulders, the sleeves falling inches below where they should’ve. He’d always been a fan of baggy clothes, but this was ridiculous. He felt like a child in his Dad’s jumper, like someone took extra precaution in wrapping him up to protect him from the biting cold.

He reached a shaky hand out to the fabric of the curtains, noticing how up close the light poured through every open space between fibres, no different from how it once came through the beach-hut walls, illuminating like brilliant fire-flies each dawn. The material was warm beneath his fingers, and when he drew the drapes and the sun flooded the room, painting the colours anew, he felt a little of those golden rays soak into his skin. Spreading sunrise, pinkish glow, clouds tinted, colours spread across the sky announcing the new day, oranges and reds painted across the clouds as if by a celestial hand.

Then, as he came around and his senses awoke, he realised that these weren’t their curtains, and that wasn’t their view. In the haze of the morning glow, Louis seemed to have forgotten of the London buildings that obstructed their opportunity for pretty views like this to wash their room golden, and the buzzing noise of the rush-hour traffic, the wavy lines on scorched drab cement that laid out for countless miles and awoke them each morning.

Under blue and sunlit skies, this view was wondrous to behold, for the lake before the window teemed with life. To the chorus of birdsong from the surrounding green bushes, and the sound of carp sucking amongst the flowering lily-pads. A mother duck, watchful for the predatory pike, scooped the surface for food, with her young trailing behind like a row of bobbing corks. Dab chicks and coots fed in the haven of the reed-beds, whilst flashing blue and green dragonflies hovered above.

It was pretty, but it wasn’t their view. It wasn’t their room either. Instead of his and Harry’s small apartment bedroom decorated with cremes and whites and accents of sky-blue, Louis was looking at colourless walls of grey that were covered in canvases, painted by somebody who clearly knew what they were doing. Beneath his bare feet were floorboards, cold and hard, instead of plush carpet that peaked out between his toes like sand or newly cut grass. The sheets didn’t smell like him, or Harry for that matter; in fact, the entire room smelt like vanilla and slight traces of cigarette smoke, in contrast to the frosted pear candles and flowery air fresheners they kept around their room.

Louis walked up to one of the canvases cautiously, stroking the bumps of oil paint with a gentle touch. The tone of the painting was muted, the style reminiscent of Monet. Each stroke had a smudging quality that rendered the image watery, like a reflection in a rippled puddle. The scene was a street - London, he’d bet. The umbrella bearing pedestrians were battling against rain and the red double-deckers and black cabs rumbling by. It reminded him of Oxford Street, looking out of a rain-splattered window at the rivers of people that moved in each direction. Like in the painting, they moved so randomly, pushing against one another, flowing, like water. Perhaps to this artist that's what people were, Louis thought, small drops in a sky full of rain, each one looking out and saying to themselves ‘Wow, that sure is a lot of rain.’

This wasn’t their house at all, he realised as he deserted the painting and moved into the hallway. It smelt more of spring and fresh air than the bedroom, and he noticed a cool breeze blew to his left. Looking across, he could see there was an open window in a bathroom, light beaming through it and into the hallway, illuminating the space with golden tones of sunshine. Surely it couldn’t have been that weather already? It was the end of February, but they had just seen the end of the snow season; the air still held a biting frost and the last of the treaded ice hadn’t melted yet. So why was it he was already working up a sweat stood with the warmth hitting the side of his face? With his drowsiness still wearing off, he stumbled his way on bambi-like legs to the door of the bathroom.

Louis was startled to see a face glaring back at him that was washed of any colour. On impulse, he reached for a weapon to defend himself, absent from such a setting of course, and suddenly he felt foolish in his slouchy sweater. It was, of course, a mirror, and his own beleaguered features staring back at him through swollen eyes. His skin was simply grey, his nose was a new shape entirely, and his jaw was less soft, carved out and sharper.

He tried to recall what had led to this. His last memory was of Harry kissing him goodbye before sending him off to an important meeting. What was the meeting even for? Maybe he was drugged and kidnapped by a fan, or maybe he’d gotten too drunk and woken up with the worst hangover of his life in a foreign country.  
Then he noticed his hair. It was messy, his bed head evident, but longer than he remembered, reaching the nape of his neck and curling up at the ends. Why was it that his hairline seemed to be less prominent? Where did his soft fringe go? Nothing was making sense and now he felt sick. Where was Harry, why wasn’t he here to explain it all, to wake him up with a shower of kisses and talk about his latest book?

“Harry!” he shouted hopelessly through panicked breaths, thinking of his attempts futile as he’d fully convinced himself that he’d been abducted. Until a voice shouted back.

“One minute!”

The voice was like nothing Louis had ever heard before. It sounded like a drum, but deeper, like a tuba, but deeper. It was smooth, like butter, and the tone was as deep as the sun at midnight. It sounded faintly like Harry; raspier and deeper, but still that same youthful, Manchester accent he’d come to adore since meeting Harry. He was still as confused as ever, if not more, but thanked his lucky stars that the person he could then hear walking up the stairs wasn’t some 50-year-old guy who wanted to cut up his body and sell it on the black market.

Although, the person standing now at the top of the stairs wasn’t his Harry, not the one Louis knew. The more Louis mulled it over the more his brain became a spinning top, always finding more questions than answers. There was a familiarity to him Louis just couldn't shake, not a memory per se, but echoes that called to his intuition.

His breath was ripped from his lungs. Louis couldn't breathe as he took in Harry’s delicate, pert nose and rich ruby mouth. It was some alternate-universe, Mandela-effect version of Harry. His hair reached his shoulders, framing his face perfectly. His hairline had receded too, making his face look a lot longer than it was supposed to be. He was supposed to be baby faced with beautiful curly hair swooping in all directions, but instead he had chiselled features, what looked like the start of a moustache, and more wrinkles in his smile lines and around his eyes.

Oh, but his eyes… They hadn’t changed. It was his eyes that winded Louis like a punch to the stomach. They were the striking green of fresh rosemary, the bright beams of sunlight accentuating the tiny brown flecks in his lasting gaze. They were still youthful, holding the same spark that Louis was used to.

“Who are you?” It was a stupid question, really, but it was all he could think of, the only coherent sentence that his lips could form amidst the nonsense. 

Something like sadness flickered in the strange man’s remarkable eyes and instantly flashed away, buried deep in that soft, strong mask that overtook the rest of his lovely features. Maybe things had changed, maybe he had woken up in a parallel universe after all, in which Harry was some hot glam-rock god and they both decided to grow their hair out; a universe where they’re rich and famous and live in Mexico or Brazil. The one thing that hadn’t changed, though, was Harry’s eyes. The way Louis felt at ease, at home looking into them was still as there, even more so now as he felt all his panic melt away. Words had left him. He stared into those bright burning eyes, and his heart fell silent.

“You’re awake!” Parallel-Universe Harry finally spoke, stating the obvious. Louis would have made a joke, somewhere along the lines of ‘no shit Sherlock’, if he wasn’t so overwhelmed. “We need to talk, love.”  
Led reluctantly by Harry’s hand in his, Louis moved back into the bedroom. There again was the smoke and vanilla; the smell of fresh linen intoxicated him. 

Harry sat on the foot of the bed, letting go of Louis’ hand and leaving it cold and empty, a feeling Louis was already hating. His hands were like the missing puzzle piece to Louis’. His velvety stretched palm with long, thin fingers wrapping around Louis’, that bore the innocence of a young girl; soft and delicate.  
Harry patted the space next to him, ushering Louis to join him on the bed, so he sat down cautiously.

“So, you’re probably wondering- “

“Are we in some alternate universe where I’m the sugar baby you pay to drag round with you on your hard rock concert tours because you’re lonely, or what? Did you grow your hair out to head-bang?” Louis jumped to interrupt.

“I- “ 

“Are you a loner, is that it?”

He didn’t know what he was expecting, but he wasn’t expecting Parallel-Harry to laugh.  
It came from Harry like a newly sprung leak - timid at first, stopping and starting. He wasn't done though; Louis could tell from the way he rolled his eyes to the ceiling and bit his lip to supress his child-like giggles. Then, from deep inside Harry’s chest came a great shaking motion and his face muscles grew tight. Louis folded his arms, eyebrows arched, waiting.

In moments, Harry's laugh was more like a bust water main arching into the brilliant summer sky soaking everyone around him with unrestrained gales that debilitated him to a thigh slapping picture of glee. Louis wanted to stay straight faced, flip his parallel-universe long hair over his shoulder and storm off - Harry was, after all, laughing at Louis, and not with him. But, before Louis could stop himself, his poker straight mouth twitched upwards and he was giggling.

“I’m being serious!” Louis whined through his chuckles.

“Alright, alright,” Harry puzzled, taking in deep breaths to try to calm himself, “You think we’re in a parallel universe?” Harry started to laugh again, the idea obviously incredibly funny to him, but Louis gave him a stern look, one that dared him to laugh once more and see what happened, so Harry calmed himself.

They sat in a heavy silence for a while, long enough for Louis to realise that the clock was ticking irregularly, and it probably needed new batteries, before Harry spoke again. “This is going to be hard, Louis. Are you sure you’re ready?”

“I’m not sure of anything right now. There’s nothing you could say that could make this situation any worse.”  
Louis was wrong. So wrong.

Maybe because he wasn’t expecting the word ‘amnesia.’

Louis stood up from the shock, wanting to get as far away as possible from Harry, from the room, from everything, but immediately regretted it when his blood rushed to his head and he was suddenly dizzy, his eyes feeling fuzzy. Beneath his feet, the wooden floor felt soft, not as much as even a firm carpet, but not right for oak planks.

Louis moved to the edge of the room, his shorts and bare calves brushing against the wall. It was hard to make out the details of the room with his vision so blurred, shapes and stars all colours of the rainbow dancing in front of his eyes, but after a while he could make out the features of the room, the faint silhouette of a worried Harry inaudibly talking to him. Louis stumbled drunkenly to the hallway. He went to run down the stairs and his foot went right through the first one. He staggered backward, his mind swirling, his breaths shallow.

Louis knew he would pass out when his stomach gave out. It felt like his innards were being replaced by a black hole. Then nausea crept from his abdomen to his head and the world went black. 

He woke like he was hooked up the mains, as if it was an emergency, as if sleeping had become a dangerous thing. His heart was beating fast and there was a buzzing in his brain and together they were as panic with jump-leads. No sleepiness, no slow warming up. Within seconds of realizing he was unconscious Louis was on his feet, eyes wide. He was drinking in the feedback of all his senses. Aside from his own noisy, laboured breath and the clock, there was nothing to be heard, and the room he was in was simply too dark to see much at all. Black furniture against an almost black backdrop didn’t make for much to see and his imagination began to supply horrors to fill the void.

“Sun?”

His moment of numbness subsided at the sound of that distant voice. “Harry?” Louis felt the panic begin like a cluster of spark plugs in his abdomen. It started out as thin cellophane, something his fingers could pierce breathing holes in him. In another second as the realisation and the memories of their past conversation hit him, the panic was a deluge of ice water surrounding every one of his limbs, creeping higher until it passed his mouth and nose.

“Harry!” Louis shouted desperately, strangely uncertain but looking for an answer in the darkness. He started feeling around blindly, grabbing at the air like a wanting child upon receiving no answer. Had the words in his head even reached his mouth?

The attack became absolute, shutting his body down as fast as pushing a reset button. The thoughts started to accelerate inside his head. He wanted them to slow so he could breathe, but they wouldn’t. His breaths came in gasps and he felt like he was going to black out once again. His heart was hammering inside his chest like it belonged to a rabbit running for its skin.

The room started to spin, and he squatted on the floor, trying to make everything slow to something his brain and body could cope with. 

As he was about to cry out for Harry again, a light switch flicked, the sound scaring Louis more than he cared to admit, and suddenly the room was lit in a dim, golden light, just bright enough for him to make out shapes and colours of the furniture. Harry stepped from the shadows, stealing Louis’ breath and the heat from his skin. 

Suddenly Louis’ defences were just paper, paper that was being soaked by the rapidly falling briny drops. Before he could draw in the air his body needed, he had melted into Harry’s form. Louis could feel his firm torso and the heart that beat within. Harry’s hands were folded around Louis’ back, drawing him in closer. Louis could feel his body shake, crying for the missing memories of time he would never get back, crying to release the tension that had built within him. Harry pulled Louis’ head back gently and wiped his tears with a soft finger, which brought more relief to Louis than his heart could hold.

Louis was eating Harry with his eyes, running his hand through his hair, as if he couldn't quite believe Harry wasn’t part of an almost forgotten dream. Harry was gazing back at Louis’ like he was looking far beyond his tears and his quivering lips.

Louis stood and stared back at his emerald green eyes that glimmered like the stars in the sky. Harry looked at his lips and now Louis knew what he was about to do. He was not ready at all for this, his hands got sweaty and shaky. Harry was leaning forward, and Louis’ instinct was to take a step back and run for his life, but he found himself moving closer to him. 

Harry tilted his head last minute and kissed Louis’ cheek instead, and it was sweet, gentle, and it tasted of Louis’ tears, but it wasn’t nearly enough. Louis want to speak, to tell Harry how much he loved him and kiss him deeply, but all he could do was croak, "Don't go. Not again." Harry’s mouth painted a soft smile and he nodded before folding Louis in his arms again. “Harry, please explain.” Louis whispered into the darkness, just loud enough to be heard over the clock in the room, still ticking away irregularly.

Harry wrapped his arms all the way around Louis’ torso, not carrying his weight but supporting him enough to walk them back over to the bed. He helped Louis lay back down, supporting his head and neck with extra care as if he was a baby and putting some extra pillows behind Louis to sit him up a little more. He slowly undimmed the lamp, not wanting to stun Louis or hurt his eyes, and sat next to him on the bed.

“So, Louis,” Harry began, “You have anterograde amnesia.”

Louis did his best to keep himself conscious, ignoring the way he suddenly felt sick to his stomach. “So…” He began, halting when he heard himself. Just then did he realise how unfamiliar his voice sounded in his own head, how gruff and deep it was compared to the voice he was used to, the voice he supposed he used to have. It was still very high compared to Harry’s deep, god-like voice, but aged and less-lively now. “What does that mean?” he finally asked after readjusting to his new voice.

“Anterograde amnesia is a loss of the ability to create new memories after the event that caused amnesia. That means, you have a partial or complete inability to recall the recent past, while your long-term memories from before the event remain intact.” Harry spoke slowly and carefully, making sure that Louis could process everything he was saying. “You lost a few memories from the years before the event, but nothing too big.”  
Louis was stunned into silence, shocked more than he was confused. His face was frozen, it had all the emotion of wet concrete. Harry’s eyes flicked back and forth over Louis’ face in the dim yellow lamp light, darting frantically, waiting for Louis to say something, before he took a deep breath and opened his mouth. 

Louis’ jaw hung open for a little while, his mouth opening and closing a few times, before any words fell from his lips. “When did it happen?” Louis asked cautiously, slightly afraid of the answer.

Harry visibly hesitated, “About seven years ago.”

“Seven years? I’ve lost seven years of my life?!” Emotion flooded across Louis’ face suddenly, clearly feeling distraught. What was once wet concrete had then moulded into the anger of one thousand Greek gods, a sculpture of vexation. He stood up quickly, almost numb to how his head started spinning, and as he did so Harry turned the lamp on his bedside cabinet to full brightness.

“Not exactly!” Harry chased Louis’ anger desperately as Louis paced the small stretch of floor between the foot and the head of the bed, “You still lived the seven years, you just don’t remember them. I promise they were good, though! I have photos, if you want to see them. I use that Polaroid camera that you bought me in-”

“I don’t want to see the photos, Harry!” Louis voice was raised now, much louder than the gentle tone that Harry kept.

“You never do.” Harry whispered under his breath, and Louis probably wasn’t supposed to hear. It was like the words should’ve sounded sadder than they did, but they just sounded repeated and exhausted, like he was reading a script or going through the motions. 

“God, this is so fucked up! Do you realise how fucked up this is?” Louis shouted in exasperation, the realisation hitting him. He could feel his voice raising, his anger untethering before he could swallow it back down again. “You’re telling me I have had to sit here every morning for the past six years-”

“Seven years.” Harry corrected bluntly.

“-trying to hopelessly piece everything together while you sit there with your perfect, happy memories!”

“That’s not my fault, Louis, and you know that.” Harry still didn’t raise his voice, refusing to argue; he stated everything matter-of-factly.

“How do I know anything, Harry? How do I know you don’t manipulate me into doing crazy shit because I won’t remember it the next day? How do I know I even want to be here, if I even love you anymore?!” The shouting was a violence in the air, a way to take the anger from Louis and transfer the tension in Harry. There was something in Louis’ shouting, a pain behind it.

Harry watched patiently. He watched Louis’ eyes. Harry had been having this conversation long enough to know that the anger was nothing but a shield for the pain and the fear, like a cornered soldier randomly throwing out grenades, scared for his life, lonely, desperate.

Louis never argued with his fists, but his words packed a powerful punch. Carefully spoken, without drama, his words had an air of finality to them, and the words that flew from his mouth should’ve hurt Harry, or at least taken him aback. Except, Harry didn’t look phased. He wasn’t shocked or surprised or hurt at all. He wasn’t contemplating anything or jumping to reply like before; quite the contrary. He wore an expression that said he’d heard all of this before and seemed to hold a level of confidence that suggested he knew what to say and do next.

Harry breathed in slowly. He raised to his knees, walking over to Louis on them. He looked Louis in the eye with a certainty and sternness, having to look down even with Louis standing and the bed being low rise. They stared at each other in an odd way, as if it were a silent argument. Their glances battled with each other.  
Louis traced Harry’s lip lightly with the tip of his finger. It pouted slightly, and Louis had such an urge to bite it, to kiss it. He desired in that moment nothing more than to wrap them both up in a quilt and listen to their gentle breathing, watching the cotton ripple like skipping stones and sharing crooked smiles like they used to, like he remembered. 

Under Louis’ feather light touches, Harry’s lips felt slightly more chapped than the soft, gentle ones that he remembered. He chalked it down to the hour still being early, and quite frankly he couldn’t bring himself to care. He gazed so intently at each divot of his lip, as if it could map out the ancient seas and tell Louis everything that he had forgotten. And he didn’t want to look up, because if he looked up, he knew he would find himself at the mercy of stern, green, beautiful eyes. 

“Do I love you?” 

“Are you so focused on my lips that you can’t form an answer with yours?”

Sassier than Louis remembered, too, but he chuckled nonetheless, which pulled a hearty laugh from Harry, and then they were in hysterics.  
People thought of laughing as a noise that comes from the mouth, but when Harry laughed, it was nothing like that. The laugh was in his eyes, in the way his face changed into a vision of relaxed joy. Yet, truly, it wasn’t in his face either. His laugh came from within, it was just the way he was wired. Just being around Harry for a few minutes was better for the heart and the soul than a whole day of self-absorbed pampering in some all-day-spa.

“You got taller.” Louis noted, finally flicking his gaze from Harry’s lips to his eyes.

Harry’s eyes were green. The kind of green that pushed its way through piles of gritty snow to remind you that spring was coming. The kind of green that budded on the prisoners of winter, bringing life back to their branches. That churning, passionate green that the ocean turns during a storm. That colour of the forest after it rains. The colour of the tadpoles making ripples in the pond. That green colour that brings hope and life no matter what has happened. And looking into those green eyes, Louis could see it. And Harry knew that he could.

“You didn’t.” Harry replied through laughter. The giggles rolled out of him like the waves on a long shallow beach. They seemed to disappear for a while only to build up and break to the surface once more, causing Louis to join too. He knew it wasn't stereotypically manly to giggle but he couldn't help it, and he didn’t really care. Harry's giggles were infectious, and they softened the room, as if his gentle sounds could make lamplight more golden and fires burn warmer.

Louis moved his head closer to Harry. They sat frozen, from both fear and excitement. Louis leaned in, so his forehead rested against Harry’s. They closed their eyes. Both their breaths were shaking.

"Thank you," Louis breathed in barely more than a whisper. 

"For calling you short?" Harry replied, his voice low and husky. 

"For being you." His voice wavered, exhilarated from the tension between them. 

Louis gently leaned in and kissed Harry's warms lips, softly but swiftly. They pulled apart and took shaky, shallow breaths. Unable to contain himself anymore, Harry took Louis’ head in his hands and pulled him into a fiery and passionate kiss. 

The kiss obliterated every thought. For the first time since waking, Louis’ mind was locked into the present. The worries of the day evaporated like a summer shower onto a hot car. Drunk on endorphins, his only desire was to touch Harry, to move his hands under his smooth layers and feel his perfect softness. In moments, the soft caress had become firmer, Louis savoured Harry’s lips and the quickening of Harry’s breath that matched his own. 

Louis pulled away breathlessly, keeping his head close to Harry’s and resting their foreheads together again. “You’re a lot better at kissing than I remember,” he said, panting.

“There’s more where that came from,” Harry teased. The left side of his lips tugged upwards, creating a sinister smirk on his beautiful, God-like face. Well defined, with a sharp jaw and angular cheekbones. The thing Louis wanted to do to that man. The things he could do.

Louis moved in to kiss Harry again, now with a clear plan of how their morning was going to go, but Harry pulled back and stood on his knees.

“Don’t be so eager, Tomlinson. We’ve got all day.” Harry gave a particularly vicious jab to Louis’ belly-button and Louis silently said goodbye to the idea of getting any morning sex.

“Fine,” Louis whined in his ear. “Make me breakfast.”

“Make it yourself.” Louis gave him a look of disbelief, but Harry just simpered sweetly and started dragging Louis bodily out of bed, ignoring his half-hearted grumbling.

“Come on then!”

Louis whined and writhed a bit but complied none the less, making his way downstairs with Harry for breakfast with his head still hazy with confusion and his heart overwhelmed with emotion.

The house was bigger than he had first imagined. A lot bigger. The stairs spun round in a spiral fashion, and at the bottom of them was a spacious hallway, easily 30 metres long, with more paintings like the ones in the bedroom and beautifully framed mirrors hanging on the walls, and four doors spreading along the stretch of the hallway.

Louis looked around in awe at the paintings, these ones framed unlike the ones in the bedroom. He slowed his pace and ultimately came to a stop when his eyes landed on one in particular. It dominated the walls; every colour was bold and painted with such precise lines that it almost looked like a mosaic. They were curved yet sharply defined; they seemed to stable but tumble at the same time. Like me, Louis thought, so stable but free-falling inside. He was soft but could tyrannize people who sparked his anxieties without meaning to. He was bright but often felt painted onto the background, like there really wasn't anything of substance inside. He silently hoped there was. He hoped there was more meaning in his bones than tumbling colours, chaotic and shallow. 

He tried to touch the painting, wanted to feel the toppling colours and the texture of the oils, but the frame swayed and crashed into the one next to it, making Harry snap his neck to look back at him. “Louis!” he scolded. 

“Sorry!” Louis apologised falsely, “It’s just all so exciting…”

Louis was an excited child. Asking him to sit still when he was exhilarated as so was like trying to tell a fire not to burn. His eyes were alight, his every muscle needed to move, to dance, to jump. He chattered and observed, giggled and joked. Everything tickled him as funny and if there was one idea coming from his mouth, there were eight more queuing up in his mind. That had never changed.

“Is this our house?” Louis quizzed, still taking in his surroundings with his eyes wide and his jaw dropped.

“One of them.” Harry replied nonchalantly, still walking away towards what Louis assumed would be the kitchen. 

“One- What?!” Louis chased after Harry, who was easily metres in front of him now, as he begged for an answer.

The kitchen was massive, like the ones you see in home décor magazines. Appliances Louis didn’t recognise that probably did all sorts of things sat atop white marble counters, spreading the whole way around the room. Louis wandered around as Harry picked up ingredients. Louis’ culinary skills only extend to toast or cereal, so they were lucky that Harry was making the breakfast.

Louis retired to a kitchen chair, pulled to the beautiful white oak table. He took a bite of the omelette Harry had placed in front of him, cheesy with dark leafy greens. He smiled up at the taller of the two, "Harry, this is so good! Way off from burnt pancakes. Where’d you learn to cook like this?!”

Harry giggled, his eyes closing and creasing with the laugh, dimple popping out.

“What’s the green stuff?”

With a boyish grin, Harry raised his brows, opening his eyes, "Stinging nettle, chives and dandelion leaves." 

Louis paused as if his thoughts had stopped entirely, "Holy. That tastes good."

Harry gave a shrug, the one he had always gave when he was proud of himself but tickled with his own shyness. "Chuck out the stems from the dandelions, boil the rest together for a few minutes, cold water, squeeze, chop. That's it. Sting all gone. Eat what wants to grow, easy."

“Do you still do the gardening then?” Louis queried, filling his mouth with more food. Harry glowed at the question, chittering for the next 10 minutes about his garden, and the plants and flowers and vegetables he was growing recently, and promised to show Louis later.

They sat in silence for a while after, until Louis spoke up quietly, “Doesn’t it get boring?”

“Doesn’t what get boring, darling?” Harry looked up from his plate and into Louis’ eyes, making Louis look down nervously.

“Doing this every morning.” Louis whispered, refusing to make eye contact. He wasn’t ashamed of the question, or that he asked it, but more afraid of the answer Harry would give. He could easily just say yes, and Louis’ heart would be broken in two. Harry didn’t do anything; just kept his glare on Louis strong. His mouth didn’t say anything, but the silence and the look in Harry’s eyes told Louis that he was waiting, pressing, for Louis to carry on. 

“The same thing must happen every day, right? I wake up, you explain, I shout, we make up… You deny me sex, make me breakfast and act like you don’t do it every day.” Louis turned in on himself, afraid, murmuring softly, “Don’t I get boring…”

“You think this is what happens every day?” Harry asked, a hint of offense in his voice.

When people are scared, when they’re under stress, they speed up their brain's "angry-face search app" but, as they get faster, they get less accurate. They start to see angry faces that aren't there, reading calm faces as angry. And the stress hormones don't choose what people fear, they amp up whatever we've learned to fear. That's why society falls apart under ongoing stress - cracking us at our weak-points, spreading hate and indifference like a damn virus.  
Maybe that’s why Harry looked so mad to Louis, like his blood was boiling over at the very sound of Louis’ voice.

“Yeah. Don’t it?” Louis asked, afraid now not only of the answer but of Harry. Suddenly his mind was in overdrive and he felt once again like the man sitting before him at the breakfast table was a stranger. Harry must’ve sensed it, must have known Louis far too well, because he put his fork down and stood up, moving to stand behind Louis. He wrapped his arms around Louis shoulder and neck. 

There is the hug of gentle arms that still gives the space to breathe; then there is the hug of strong arms that tells everything that you are - body, brain and soul - that they are with you. Harry hugged Louis with purpose, with a message, and Louis had well received it. In Harry’s arms he felt like it was 2012 again. He felt like he was at home.

“Do you know how impossible that is?” Harry continued softly besides Louis’ ear, his worried question far from forgotten, “That every day the same thing happens? There are too many variables.”

“Alright, genius.” Louis jested, leaning his head back onto Harry’s shoulder to look up at the man who towered over him, his cocky and confident act melting immediately. “Explain?” he asked Harry hesitantly.

“Well, for the same thing to happen every day, you’d have to wake up at the exact same time, we’d both have to say the same things as we’re reading a script, so on, so on. Butterfly effect, Tomlinson. The little things affect the big things,”

“Really?”

“Yeah.” Harry squeezed Louis tightly once more and sighed deeply, contently. “Eat your breakfast.”

“Really?” Louis repeated as a broken record would, unbelieving of Harry’s answer and ignoring of Harry’s request.

“Yeah. Yesterday, we went to the zoo and you fell in love with the penguins. Now, eat your breakfast, it’ll go cold!” Harrys tittered. He used to think he had a ‘manly’ chortle, but it was a little high pitched for that. He once suggested that it could be a snicker, but all the boys told him he giggled like a school girl. 

Louis obeyed, shovelling another fork full of food into his mouth, but not before muttering, “Can we go to the zoo today too?”


End file.
